


Only This Will Do

by Wolfscub



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston Fandom
Genre: Biting, D/s, Erotica, F/M, NSFW, PWP, Rough Sex, dom!Tom, dominant Tom, smutty smut smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 12:57:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolfscub/pseuds/Wolfscub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex.  Just sex.  Rough sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only This Will Do

**Author's Note:**

> NSFW
> 
> Mature Audiences Only
> 
> Written in, like, 45 minutes this morning (when I should have been doing something else, of course), so please excuse the typos and I know there are tense problems near the end, but I don't feel like fucking with it any more, so whatever.
> 
> Inspired by the look on Tom's face in tom nippleston's lovely [edit](http://tom-nippleston.tumblr.com/post/118881215562/in-loving-memory-of-laterovaries-for-she-is).

[](http://s1008.photobucket.com/user/phillyloo/media/tumblr_noayib1vqF1t4wfwdo1_500_zpskkfwmuoj.jpg.html)

He was always a gentleman, and almost always a gentle man, and you'd long since - based on that fact - given him permission to do whatever he wanted with you, and you thrilled in your heart - and other parts - to submit yourself to him whenever he reached for you.

Occasionally, though, something nameless overcame him, usually while you were doing something innocuous and innocent, like washing dishes or making the bed - which was infinitely more dangerous, considering how he acted on his impulse.

Sometimes he just . . . took you - threw you down on the bed to press you into the mattress with his sheer weight and size, or used his superior strength to lift you up, onto the counter, or slam you against the nearest wall, ripping whatever clothes you were wearing from your body, the shreds barely hitting the floor before he was on you and in you, even before you'd had a chance to wrap your arms - and legs - around him, filling you so that, even now, even after years with him, you had to yelp at the shock of his hard, imposing presence within you.

And it didn't - _he_ didn't - stop there.

Far from it.

Those times were purely for him. He was usually so loving and careful of you, so scrupulous about your pleasure, endlessly indulgent and attentive- to the point of making you faint in his arms - or within his mouth - with alarming frequency, and it seemed that the longer you were together, the more intense your encounters became.

You could understand the instinct when he'd just come home from months of being away - which made him even more insatiably hungry for you and more terribly, endearingly possessive of you than usual - but this happened even when he'd been home for months, and had been at you night and day, as always.

In those moments, when your heart stopped as your eyes collided, him looking down at you from his great height no matter how you were positioned, the inevitably pleasant façade along with all trappings and constraints of civilization ripped away from him, baring him to the bone, bringing him closer to his primal, elemental self than he ever was or would be.

Even words were too much for him - a man who reveled in them - at a time like that. He grunted and growled and groaned, never asking but demanding, expecting your obedience, expecting you to yield your body to him in any way he chose with no complaint - positioning and using you entirely for his own pleasure, to his own ends.

And you loved _every, single_ wild, unexpected, dangerous moment of it, never knowing what he was going to do to you when he was in this kind of mood.

Sometimes he flipped you over onto your stomach on the bed, almost mid-thrust, to drag your hips back against him, the fingers of big hand painfully gripping the curve where your neck became your shoulder, not allowing you to move an inch to get away from his heavy, savage thrusts, that same hand pressing your head down as his free hand swatted your bottom in time with his violent penetration, drawing yelps of pain from you on one count and reckless moans of pleasure on the other - both of which he completely ignored.

Occasionally, he would use your hair to straighten you up against him, his legs between yours on the bed, forcing you to spread impossibly wide, keeping you a bit unbalanced and dependant on him not to fall as his hands roamed over you possessively while he continued his battering pace, all teeth and no tender lips as he nipped and bit the side of your neck and shoulder, one big hand splayed between your hips to keep you in place for him, the other cruelly gripping first once breast then the other, making you cry out from the pain of his fingers digging into your sensitive flesh, knowing full well that he expected you to cry out.

That he _wanted_ to hear you moan and beg him for mercy that you knew would _not_ be granted.

When he was near his end - and, shamefully, you were at least that far along, too - he would bend you over in front of him again, but not onto all fours this time. Only enough, instead, so that he could wrap his arms under yours to lock his fingers at the back of your neck, holding it and you down, rendering you even more helpless against him than you had been before, unable to brace yourself in any way as he pistoned his cock into you to the hilt every bone-jarring time, his legs spreading further, taking yours with them until you are practically hanging from his cock and those powerful arms - being well and thoroughly fucked.

Very thoroughly. Despite what might have been your reservations about how he was treating you, there was no way to deny the passions that this rough treatment aroused within you. Despite - or perhaps because of - the fact that he made absolutely no effort to please you in any way, you - with no small amount of embarrassment - never failed to find yourself completely overwhelmed by the screaming, crying, flailing orgasms his animalistic behavior inspired in you.

Which never failed to draw one and only one reaction to the pleasure you unwillingly displayed to him - the most evil laugh you'd ever heard from him, one that seeped into your ears, peaking already thoroughly abused and aching nipples even further, making you helplessly clench just that much harder around him as he continued to pound into you, your response or the lack thereof not having one whit of effect on his own pursuit while you are thrown from one helplessly heaving peak to the other.

As he finds his own end, he bends even further over you, those sharp white teeth sinking into your shoulder, like a stallion bites a mare he's covering, and your cries of pain are added to the ecstatic ones that are still pouring - unbidden by either of you - from your now raw throat.

And he doesn't let go until he's pumped ferociously into you for the very last time, holding you still for him to the very end, breath bellowing out of him - out of the both of you.

Finally, he allows you to collapse onto the bed in front of him, to be crushed immediately into the mattress by the weight of him atop you.

Yet, in the aftermath, which is preternaturally silent except for the sounds of each of you trying to gulp enough oxygen into your lungs to stave off a faint, he never fails to hold you with infinite tenderness, always inquiring in a soft, concerned tone if you're all right, his hands wandering all over you as if to prove for himself that your hoarse, breathless, "I'm fine," is the truth.

But there are no apologies. 

And there never will be.

Because he knows he doesn't have to apologize.

You're his, to do with as he pleases.

And sometimes - more and more often, truth be told - only this will do.


End file.
